


a little time with you is all that i get

by wajjs



Series: Time after Time [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Elseworlds, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Robin 3000 (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Immortality, M/M, Outer Space, immortal!jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: To the monument of bad ideas, he submits this one: getting in any way, shape or form, involved with Thomas Wayne, the last of the Waynes and the last of the Robins.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Tom Wayne/Jason Todd
Series: Time after Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485956
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	a little time with you is all that i get

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the fic that finally brings an 'official' end to this series! Depending on if there is more interest in the future I might be tempted to write short drabbles and one-shots because there are so many things and scenes I couldn't fit into this story.
> 
> This time I leaned in more heavily into the Robin 3000 comics (old elseworlds comics), but there is no need to read them beforehand to get what is going on. 
> 
> To summarize: humanity tried to take over living in outer space only for everything to backfire terribly when the skulps (an alien race) introduced a deadly sickness and declare the Waynes guilty for it. Then the skulps start taking over humanity and treat them as inferiors/cheap workforce.
> 
> Thomas "Tom" Wayne's uncle, Bruce (insert number), is Batman and the skulps chance them until Bruce number something sacrifices himself so that Tom can live and continue being Robin. Tom's dad has been taken by the skulps to one of the work camps and is, presumably, dead.
> 
> Tom is captured, taken to jail, but he escapes with the aid of his friend Aki and then there are clones and stuff. That's all.
> 
>  _Do_ read the previous fics in this series because otherwise you might be a whole lot lost as to how Jason ended up here and what the heck is going on.
> 
> Also, I decided this time to go easy on the warnings because otherwise part of the surprise of this story would be lost. So keep in mind that there might be complex topics ahead. There is a whole lotta sadness compacted into one lil fic. (I am inclined to add vague warnings in the tags if they are really needed, I just don't know how to word them without giving away too much.)
> 
> For clarity's sake, here are the names of the minor characters (they are ridiculous but what else can I do):  
> -Aki Wong, Tom's best friend.  
> -Duncan Dire, the scientist.  
> -Genra Carson, a girl who used to work as intelligence agent for the skulps but ends up teaming up with Tom & co.  
> -Moon Bailey, the only kid, he has psychic powers.

**A little time with you is all that I get**

_One thousand lonely stars hiding in the cold_

To the monument of bad ideas, he submits this one: getting in any way, shape or form, involved with Thomas Wayne, the last of the Waynes and the last of the Robins. To the monument of cosmically bad ideas, he submits the worst of them all, gives a single step backwards and admires it.

There’s not much left to do if it’s not him carrying it through till the end. Hope he doesn’t lose more pieces of himself than he can afford losing. Hope after this the universe will finally give him a break.

All alone for the moment by the main consoles of the ship, he looks at the stars that never blink and never waver (until their death is due). He’s out of time and out of place, but how could it be otherwise if there’s no place for him when everything’s changing and he’s the only one who doesn’t shift. Stubbornly clinging to memories and lives that no longer are. Stubbornly clinging to them in hopes they know, in hopes they learn that he’s never stopped, never stopped caring, never stopped loving.

He had just been too much of a wounded fool to tell them, then. He just. He’d been. And the stars don’t blink or move or cease even when they do, because time is a tricky bastard and it goes round and round in circles till it becomes a noose around his throat, till it leaves him hanging, bare feet touching the silk of life.

And maybe he wishes those memories were stars, too, so when he holds onto them he gets burnt and finally feels something else, finally feels alight.

He makes sure no one turns off the gravity controllers for the time being and goes and throws an escrima stick he made himself at Thomas Wayne’s head, catching him by surprise. The not-really-mad scientist with a name he doesn’t want to learn (because learning their names would make everything more real, learning would mean losing the moment they all inevitably leave to places he can’t follow for more than a handful of minutes at a time) laughs heartily, watches him with an odd wonder in his eyes. That’s what he gets for coming from a past no one really knows anything about.

(He’s told them over and over again he’s not a trustworthy source when it comes to history, there are several years here and there he completely checked out because of one reason or another, but they are yet to be undeterred.)

Thomas makes an indignant noise and picks up the stick that had fallen to the floor and rolled a little past his left foot. His eyes quickly dart to the girl that’s watching everything with an amused smile and that’s just another huge opening _begging_ to be exploited.

That shit would’ve gotten them in big trouble back in the day, either with the bad, good or sometimes-neither guys. Still he guesses that some things just never change, Robins wearing their hearts on their sleeves being one of them.

“What do you want, Jason?” Thomas grunts, grip tightening around the stick like the air often tightens around him. Maybe the molecules can tell that he shouldn't be here, he belongs in the past.

“Training,” Jason offers a smile that’s all teeth and shifts his weight a little, left hip cocking to the side as he idly twirls his own escrima stick in one hand, “it’s really not ok that I can take you down so easily, kid.”

“You caught me by surprise—”

“You’re a Robin, for fuck’s sake,” huffing, feeling a pang of undeniable bitterness in his chest, he turns around and starts walking to the room he emptied for this exact purpose without waiting for the other to follow. He isn't wondering why he's doing this, but he's also not far from it. “Surprising you should be harder than _that._ ”

The heavy truth of his statement hangs between them like an unreliable fog, and Jason lets it be. He’s not even halfway through the hangar when he hears footsteps following him. This is familiar, he thinks. Known territory. Something he missed.

In the fraction of a second he looks out through the viewport and a random star catches his eye. His thoughts are _his_ so he allows himself one sentimental moment, hears his own voice booming in his head: _Are you watching, B? Are you proud?_

Thomas picks up new moves quickly, masters them even faster. They soon shift from the sticks to hand to hand with a side of turning anything at their disposal into a weapon. He’s nimble and _brutal_ , something that Jason appreciates. A quick thinker, too, but it loses importance when he’s easy to read. Jason can tell it’s been a while since the kid’s had any kind of training, and he definitely needs to expand his abilities.

Being able to build incredibly effective weapons from scratch surely is amazing, but sometimes nothing is better than good old combat training. He thinks Roy would've liked Thomas. He knows Roy would've loved Thomas' prosthetic hand.

“Your stance is a little off,” Jason says between one breath and the next, easily evading a hit to his ribs, “too wide, your balance is paying for it.”

“My balance is just fine,” is the predictable answer before he's crossing the small distance Jason made. Thomas dodges a kick and quickly goes to retaliate with his own, except that before he can blink he’s on the floor, _again,_ with Jason’s standing over him, foot lightly pressing down on the center of his stomach.

“Yeah,” Jason can't quite hold back his snort, amused at the expression it earns him, before he moves to the side and leans down to offer a hand. He knows he is an asshole, but he doesn't strive to be a bigger one. “That definitely was the definition of _fine_ , wasn’t it?”

Thomas is looking at him weirdly, he realizes. He doesn’t get much time to think about it because the kid holds onto his hand and hoists himself up in one swift and graceful movement. Never quite meeting his eyes. Perhaps that fall had been harder than the others… perhaps it’s time for a break.

He bends over to pick up the discarded escrima sticks and analyzes them, noticing the small dents here and there all over the surface. Of course they are nothing like what big bird used to fight with, the materials aren't the same and his craftsmanship is on the wrong side of rusty. Jason tucks them into his belt regardless, he's going to see how he can improve them later.

“That’s enough for today,” he rolls his shoulders and hums in satisfaction when his muscles relax a little. Thomas’ face is doing strange things, his right eyebrow is twitching and his mouth seems lost between a tense line and a grimace.

Jason’s confused for a moment, he’s fairly sure he didn’t go too hard, and he knows that Thomas can take harder beatings than that. Then he remembers the look the kid had given the girl, and maybe this isn’t a physical thing, but a _pride_ one. That, _that_ he can understand.

“You did good,” he even smiles, because back in the day he would’ve killed for a smile, “got good hits in. You’re great at this, kid.”

Jason doesn’t linger after that. Doesn’t do the hand-clapping-your-shoulder thing. Isn’t sure if he should. Instead, he moves on, picks up a towel to dry himself a bit and even though he completely misses Thomas blush, he definitely hears his words:

“I’m not a damned kid,” he says like he always does whenever Jason uses the nickname. And it’s true, he’s not, but Jason’s been alive for long enough to feel like he’s justified to use it. So use it he will.

  
  


The clones are downright creepy and he's all too glad to help this team of lost sheeps in the process of getting rid of them. Before he can even notice, the youngest of them all, the only kid in the actual sense of the world, is glued to his side, falls asleep with his head pressed against Jason's ribcage, calm breaths tickling him even through the under armor he's almost always wearing.

It makes his fingers itch, makes him want to grab his guns and shoot holes into every sun they encounter. He has to stare at his helmet and remind himself that no, no, this is not the time he wishes he'd have back, this is neither his best or worst moments, and if he stares at his helmet then his heart won't break when he lifts his eyes and inevitably sees that the world around him isn't Roy's kitchen. It isn't Lian falling asleep on him, hands clutching crayons, in front of them red, orange and blue doodles in a sheet white and bright.

Jason is aware Thomas' friend is staring at him, has been since they've returned from their latest fight, the line of his shoulders as relaxed as Jason himself is tense. He's a stranger here like he was to Lian's family when he visited her one last time, in the hospital.

She had looked wrinkled like the corners of the paper sheets she used to doodle in would get after she had subjected them to the might of her eraser. She was frail, but she was happy, and she was bright with her own light.

"When I see dad again," she had said, reaching for his hand, holding it for a moment, "I'll tell him you are still alright."

"Please do," he had replied and felt like he had felt standing over Alfred's grave for the first time. The smile Lian gave him had traces of Roy all over it. A piece of her parting gift, together with a box that hadn't been opened for decades, one with a red uniform and still new arrows.

It's simply that he’s tired. He’s tired of running, of hiding, because no matter how far in time and space he scurries to, he never gets away from this ever-growing loneliness. At first it had been bat-shaped, with big calloused hands on his hips, guiding him to bed. At first it had been big hands travelling his body with tremors from all the punches given like gifts on christmas.

It had been those hands on him, holding him through it all. It had been those lips, always firm and sure, always reluctant to saying the right words, the needed ones.

At first it had been the first night Bruce had taken him to bed and neither had left till late afternoon of the next day, leaving behind only a handful of drops of blood. It had been his heart fucking up his mind because he _had_ promised himself he’d _stay away,_ he _can’t_ do this, he can’t, and he had say so, cried atop the cross of Bruce’s shoulders and said _I can’t do this alone._

Bruce never replied. He didn’t need him to. Jason knew the answer all too well:

_You have all the time in the universe to learn._

  
  


He’s testing out the latest modifications to his suit, all the little updates he’s been adding to his weapons and helmet, when the doors to what is now mostly used as the training room open. He’s half expecting it to be Thomas, since lately it feels like he sees him everywhere (a feeling that’s only exacerbated by all the android clones they keep finding), but instead by the entrance stands the only girl of their group.

Which makes him perk up, because she’s a badass and an excellent fighter, full of potential. Her hair reminds him of Steph, but not as much as her punch does. That is what he likes the most.

“Come here to spar?”

His questions seems to bring forth something he doesn’t quite know how to interpret. She frowns as she takes two steps into the room, the doors automatically closing behind her back.

“What is your goal?” she asks and that truly makes him stop. Makes him feel awkward, like he’s relearning all his movements after having his brains scattered on a warehouse floor.

“My goal?”

“Everyone is in this for something. You want something. What do you get by helping Wayne?”

Jason presses his lips as he registers the words, turns them around in his head, flips them to each and every direction. He has his helmet on and she can’t see what expression he’s making though that doesn’t stop her from staring at him like she holds all the answers. She maybe does.

So he lifts his hands, goes through the specific unlock sequence of the security latches of his helmet and takes it off. Whatever his answer is going to be, it _has_ to be an honest one, and nothing conveys honesty as well as good old eye to eye conversation.

The action comes with the benefit of giving him more time, even if it’s just seconds. Not because he needs it to think of an answer, that one he has - just because he’s trying to determine how much omitting he can get away with.

“It’s what’s right,” he tests the phrase even as he says it, receives the full weight of her eyes on his face. “And - it’s distant, the… _family_ connection, if it even can be called that, but. I was once Robin, too. It’s just right.”

They look at each other for what feels like light years worth of time. Knowing time, what a deceiving asshole it can be, the feeling might as well be real. For some reason his heart is beating fast, like it did in the past when he hadn’t been a lone man standing adrift in the silk of the universe and reality, when he hadn’t been the _last_ of his generation, the ones before it and the ones after, too. When he had still hoped… hoped…

“He might trust you,” she says, ice crawling up her voice and traveling through the air to experimentally stab at his chest, and then proceeds to finish her sentence even though there’s no real need for it, the meaning is all clear, “but I don’t. I don’t even believe you are—it’s impossible. That’s impossible.”

Names surface to the tip of Jason’s tongue, names that haven’t been said in too long, mummies of memories he keeps tightly wrapped around bundles of hurt, pain and acceptance because truth is, it _had_ been possible, hadn’t it? There had been a number of people out there living for as long as he lived. But then they had all gone and died—not in the same moment, but—but.

He pushes them away, down and back where they belong. Instead, he grabs his gun, the only one from those times that he still keeps, clicks off the safety. He considers it for a moment, feels the known weight in his hand. Puts it on the floor, with one swift push of his foot sends it towards the girl.

Her eyes are different now, no longer hard and judgemental, though still firm with determination. Good. That’s the best quality they can have.

“Prove it yourself,” he says, sets his helmet on the ground too, stands still afterwards. “Pick up the gun and shoot me. Here,” lifting his index finger, he points it right between his eyes. "Right here."

“I have no reason to kill you.”

“You just said you don’t trust me," a shrug to hide an uneasy burst of hope. If his death sticks this time then the whole universe has taken him for nothing more than a joke all these centuries. "All things considered, that’s more than enough of a reason.”

She bends over, grabs the weapon, frowns at it. Jason is just about ready to open his mouth again, instill her to just go for it, but he never gets to say that because in the same second he's pushing air out of his lungs a bullet makes itself at home in his skull. He doesn't feel himself fall. He doesn’t miss the vacuum of space.

  
  


He thinks he feels the presence of someone he knows. In the shadows. Among them. Someone he misses—someone he misses is here, someone he’s been trying his damndest to forget to forgive to accept to relearn. Maybe it’s because he’s learnt not to fear the shadows, he’s learnt to lean into their trembling limbs, to let himself be touched, guided, reassured.

There’s not a door. There never is. There is no light and no sound and no air but he does not need it. He’s not lonely. Something haunts him, he can never see though he feels others, though he recognizes the impossible sound of steps. In this whatever things only exist when they are needed, at random intervals, with the uncanny frequency of hoping for rain during drought season.

For an instant he thinks he catches a glimpse of someone, _someone..._ of...

Bursts of colors exploding from within going to the outside bring him back. Bursts and shouting, the chill of the floor seeping through his sweat soaked t-shirt, spreading through his spine.

There's a source of warmth near him, a small gift of kindness amidst the ruckus of voices that get louder and louder and louder and louder until they drown out the storm of his brain stitching itself back together.

" _Genra!_ Why did you—what did you do!"

"Is he _dead?"_

"He asked me to, alright?! He even gave me his gun!"

"And we are supposed to _believe_ you? You just killed him!"

A small hand rests on his shoulder. His lungs seize in that instant. It’s a small hand and he doesn’t have the strength to cling onto the tendrils of himself, so his lungs seize and his eyes water, his mouth is drier than the barren lands back on earth. Shooting through it all there’s an insisting, unrelenting ray trying to offer comfort, prodding at his mind, precariously trying to ease the way back.

This death didn’t stick, either. He still has so much he wants to say to people he’s never going to see again. The distance time brings between bodies never hurt so much. Or perhaps it always does and it’s just that each time feels like a new time all over again.

"Can't a guy fucking revive in peace?"

His eyes are still closed but Thomas’ voice is easily recognizable with or without having sight to confirm it. “Jason! Jason, you’re—”

“Alive, _shocking,_ ” blinking proves to be a mistake because he’s still sensitive to light. He attempts to cover his face with a hand, yet the blob of fat and water, white and grey matter, it is all recovering, mending itself, so he ends up slapping himself across the forehead. Someone takes pity on him and drapes something light and soft upon his closed eyelids.

The prodding becomes more insistent now that his brain is less of a scramble and—ah, _crap,_ _the kid._

“You keep calling me that,” the one in question hums right next to him. Jason is very much aware that he’s prone to _guilt._ It doesn’t take him longer than a second to feel precisely that.

“Shouldn’t have seen this,” is what he says for an apology, guts churning, and sits up as much as he dares to, supporting himself with his elbows. The cloth covering his eyes drops to his lap. “‘s fucked up.”

The kid looks at him like he's somehow worthy of adoration, which he isn't, he truly isn't, but he doesn't know how to bring that into words. Nothing out of him is worth a dime, and those have long since been good for nothing back on the homeland.

"I've seen a lot of fucked up stuff," the kid (a sunshine voice in Jason's skull says the name again, _Moon, Moon, Moon,_ ) smiles and gently pats his cheek, unwavering even when the action brings forth memories that refuse to stay down. "Do you try not to open up because I remind you of that girl?"

"No," he blurts out, as quickly as possible, "maybe. _Fuck._ "

"Jason?" Tom is kneeling next to him, hovering over him with too much worry in his eyes. Why is there even worry?

Worry means that _they care,_ or, at least, _he_ cares, which already is too much way too soon because it's been so long since he's last been close enough to someone—maybe he's _too_ close and he needs to back off, this was a bad idea and—

"No," Moon says with severity at the same time Tom asks,

"Are you alright?"

"Why are you worried about him?" Genra snaps, stepping closer. The other two members of this ragtag gang are wisely staying behind and out of the possible war zone.

"Because you fucking shot him!" Tom doesn't stand up from next to Jason though all his muscles are coiled tight. He's ready for a fight and willing to make it an ugly, dirty one.

Moon, the kid, looks into the greener eyes for a moment, makes sure Jason's a little more settled (as much as he can be in this existence) before turning to look at the girl, irises colder. In his VIP position between him and Tom, Jason tiredly looks over to where the scientist is standing, staring at him with calculating wonder in his eyes. Should he care about that?

"Genra," the kid's voice is clear and easily snaps the coiling tension of the upcoming fight. "If you really only wanted confirmation, you knew you could ask me."

That, well. That's the good point that sends all of them into silence.

Thomas doesn’t really leave his side afterwards. He’d be pissed off about it if tiredness hadn’t won over, making him seclude himself to his room until the next storm hits a boiling point. It probably helps that they are staying quiet, just two dudes minding their own business while sharing the same space.

So he stays laying atop the only cover of his cot, staring at the ceiling, berating himself for not having the forethought of bringing one of his books with him. True, he keeps all of them locked away and safe from humidity, heat and dust. And while he does have multiple copies he’s been collecting throughout the years, right now he misses the familiarity of an old friend, yellowed pages with dog-eared corners, the handwriting of someone who had cared so much for him making him feel a little less on edge. A little less lonely.

While he’s trying to retrace the ink of the words, next to him, sitting on the floor, Thomas is doing something undetermined with his prosthetic hand. Pressing parts that lead to secret compartments opening, what can be weaponized, what can be used for who knows what but will make sense when in a pinch.

Jason’s only paying half a mind to all of that. Tells himself it’s just curiosity and the need to know at the very least the basics of the thing should his help be needed.

“How did it happen?” he finds himself asking because fuck it, this is too much thinking and there are things coiling too tight inside his chest, things he needs to knock into looser shapes.

Tom doesn’t lift his head to look at him, doesn’t hum. He keeps prodding and clicking away for a couple more moments before he stops all at once.

“Rough landing while on my escape from jail,” he says, easy, like it doesn’t mean half as much as it maybe should. He’s truly over it, or he’s a good actor when there is need to be. “Mangled up my hand when we crashed. Aki was there, so he pushed me out of the debris and that’s how we met Duncan. He’s the one that created this.”

“Then he knows how it works,” Jason hums, closing his eyes and remembering the calculating look in the scientist’s face. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“‘Cause I destroyed all the schematics of this hand while escaping because we didn’t have a way to pay him for it.”

“So you’re telling me he doesn’t know plus _you, the user,_ don’t know either? You’ve been winging it this whole time?”

Thomas huffs, sitting up with his back in a straight line and staring at Jason with a frown on his features. If Jason were to open his eyes, he’d also see the faintest hints of a developing blush.

“Listen, it’s gone well for us so far and—”

“No, no,” Jason laughs, an easy sound that doesn’t hurt when it comes rolling from deep his stomach. He’s distracted enough that it doesn’t sting too bad when he thinks it’s been too long since he last laughed like this. “You’re getting me all wrong. There’s no judgement here, kid. I’m always winging it.”

“But you—what’s your whole deal with making plans, then?”

_Force of habit. A way to remember. There’s only so much getting hit in the head for some things to just stick to his bones._

“Listen, kid, you need basic guidelines. Yes, plans tend to go to shit, but it’s good to have them. ‘Cause then, when shit hits the fan, you know how much improvising you need.”

Standing up and moving to sit by the very edge of the cot, Tom grins, playfully pats Jason’s knee. “Ok, wingmaster. I guess there’s still lots I have to learn.”

They capture the next clone and the next. Each fight Thomas is more and more of a marvel to witness, and each time Jason goes back to the ship feeling thrill in his heart. It’s been so long and so bad that the smallest amount of awesome has him feeling like he’s back during the good old days, the smog of Gotham sticking to him, the shadow of a big bat standing tall next to him.

He can close his eyes and it’s like they are all there, _breathing,_ for fuck’s sake, they are _breathing_ and _living_ and everyone still remembers them because time (always the trickster) is blessing them with its grace, keeping their memory afloat so that it does not vanish.

He lays in his cot in the eternal still of drifting across the universe and when he opens his eyes he’s in a much bigger room, a fireplace facing the feet of the large bed, a body pressed to his side with arms that refuse to let go. And he wants to weep, he wants to cry, though his suspiciously wet lashes never let a single drop fall.

“It’s time,” he says, voice hoarse as he fights past the thousands of knives in his throat, “time is… it’s just fucking things up for us.”

“You know it’s not,” the one next to him hums, presses his lips to Jason’s forehead and smiles while the touch lingers.

“Don’t,” Jason warns, reaching out too and clasping his hands on a shoulder, on hair damp from the shower, “don’t say that. Time’s pushing me away from you. Time’s taking me away. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.”

Sometimes, there is a knock on the door. Sometimes, it’s the sound of alarms blaring away into infinity. This time, it’s his own seizing lungs bringing him back, because he keeps forgetting to breathe.

He's never learnt how to let things go.

In the quiet moments he tries to keep moving. If he’s moving he’s shaking away cobwebs and dust, keeps the energy in his muscles and the certainty in his grip. Here and there he goes, doesn’t wake anybody up, doesn’t expect any kind of company.

Duncan, the scientist, surprises him as he’s coming back from the high training gives him. Here are the two things Jason thinks in quick succession: he’s failed his promise of never learning their names. He’s shirtless, all his scars exposed for analytical eyes to see.

This conversation could go so many ways, yet the general direction is much too clear. So he braces himself for it. The golden question.

“How many times?” Duncan asks, unexpectedly quiet. Jason knows exactly what he’s aiming for but he’s not about to make things easier by providing answers just like that. “How many times have you died?”

He shrugs, rubs the sweat off the back of his neck with a towel and stays where he’s standing. “How many times do you think?”

Duncan hums, dark eyes not missing a single beat, not even when they leave Jason’s sight to dwell on the variety of marks upon the skin. There is a big one, yeah, the one everyone always looks at. The scientist ignores that one altogether.

“And how many by your own hand?”

The only answer he gets is Jason’s smile, thin-lipped and all teeth, one that doesn’t deny anything while still not giving in an inch.

  
  


Of course, it’s inevitable that they end up going to Earth during their journey looking for all the Tom Clones. Pity none of them know the lyrics to _She’s a lady,_ he knows this because he’s asked those who didn’t manage to self-detonate immediately.

Since it is mildly distressing to keep witnessing the face of the blond brat literally cracking and going up in flames over and over and _over_ again, he’s making the best out of the situation by adding some music to it. Those who complain (Genra. Aki.) are promptly ignored.

While they are waiting for the exact moment they can slip into Earth’s orbit undetected, he sits on the floor of the cockpit and half sings half hums as he methodically cleans his weapons.

“Well she knows what I’m about,” he begins and laughs when Genra whines because yes, this is the eighth time in a row he’s starting from the same verse—he doesn’t remember all the lyrics, so they have to deal with what he’s got. “She can take what I dish out, and that ain’t easy.”

“Come _on,_ ” Aki, Tom’s best friend and the one who pulled him out of the ship crash, huffs, crosses his arms over his chest and glares out of the viewport, “at least sing something else!”

“Who is even the song about,” Tom stays in his seat, hands over the control panels, dividing his attention expertly in a way that makes Jason proud.

“Why, a lady, of course,” Jason grins, expression turning softer around the edges when Moon laughs and leans fully against his side.

They are all so alive.

Unable to shake the feeling of being watched, Jason pulls Tom aside from their group and asks the brat to follow him out of one of the many safehouses he’s collected throughout the decades and centuries. They move swiftly, stick to the ever growing shadows as they take a long and twisting route.

Not once does Tom ask where they are going. Jason would usually berate the lack of questioning, though in this case he’s grateful for it. If he were to explain their destination, he doesn’t think he’d be able to pull through this.

Succumbing to a strange bout of honesty, he’s got to admit he’s too close to snapping like a rubber band that’s stretched too thin. It’s an awful sensation of not knowing what to do with his own skin, not knowing how to rest, a curse of a thing he’s been dealing with for all this time and just now begins bothering him in earnest.

The sensation of eyes upon the back of his neck never leaves though that barely stops him. Falling into a rhythm of pathways and whispers, he still notices the moment his breath catches in his throat as he comes to a full stop in front of _the_ door.

It’s too late to back off, now. He shouldn’t be afraid of getting burnt, not anymore, not after he’s walked through fire a hundred times more than anyone ever should.

“Just,” he says and frowns when to his ears reaches the sound of his voice shaking. “Just don’t touch anything, ok?”

“What is in there that—”

“Promise me. Promise you won’t touch anything.”

Tom takes a moment to look at him, study the set of his brows and the line of his jaw. Their eyes meet and there are too many things in them, enough for anyone to get lost in the abundant vibrancy. Pushing past all that, he truly looks at Jason, sees the trepidation, sees the insecurity.

Deep down he’s shaken, deep down there are newly built buildings cracking and crumbling to their foundations because this is something he’s never seen before, a new face that comes with hauntings and centuries, the face of someone who has too little left and too much to lose.

“I promise,” he says then, not smiling because he doesn’t think that is something Jason wants to see. 

His words are the key to get them moving again, to make Jason activate the mechanism that opens the entrance, to have them walk past the threshold into a sterile room with many lights and many cases, with displays and glass cages and:

“Holy fuck,” Tom breathes out, trembling and reverential, in a pedestal in front of him the suit of legends, black, dramatic, _effective_. The cape, the cowl, the body armour—turns to his right and sees other suits, turns to his left and there are more. Black, blue, red, yellow, green and purple.

And in the middle of it all, in the center of everything, Jason: alive and breathing yet long dead from the times of glory.

The one who remembers without a single memory of his own left behind to be remembered by. The one ripped out of a legacy and a hundred, the force out of place and out of time.

When Thomas sees this, understands this, he doesn’t know what breaks faster: his cracked buildings or something in him completely different altogether.

  
  


Jason hides from everybody when it happens again. Sits in an empty room, just him and his guns, presses the barrel against the side of his head and stares out of the broken window one last time before pressing the trigger.

The clicking sound reveals emptiness. And it happens again, and again, and again. Until he can finally let himself fall in different ways, until his eyes burn and his throat feels raw because he’s swallowing up his screams, he’s snuffing out sound in an effort to make his crying less real.

By the following week, the room’s all cleaned out, no trace of his presence left behind. He forces himself to one of his places, washes himself anew, prepares himself to face the consequences of being who he is in a world of others.

So when he steps into the hospital, takes the stairs three steps at a time and finds himself in the individual room, the one with the flowers and the known faces. He’s the only one who is as he always was, is, will be.

He takes one good long look at Bruce. Stitches himself together in front of the eyes of this man who has forever marked him as _his,_ calm and wise irises of someone who knows when there is not much rope left to pull.

“Come here,” Bruce commands and Jason follows, easy, easily, always, moves to his side and doesn’t pull away when Bruce holds his hand. “You know this is not how it ends.”

He swallows his denial. Knows the other hears it all the same.

“But I wish it was,” he half whispers, interlaces his fingers with Bruce’s and leans down to press a kiss to the scarred knuckles. “I don’t. I don’t want to let go.”

“It’s ok, Jason,” Bruce smiles, bringing to shore a piece of Jason’s soul, “I won’t let go, either.”

  
  


Being back on the ship doesn’t help clear the storm brewing around his shoulders, but it does bring in the comfort of a place that’s well known and relatively safe. He builds up a routine for Tom to follow, another one for Aki, before he goes to his room and doesn’t leave it again.

Moon stops by his door frequently, talks a little, laughs less, but he doesn’t stop smiling because he can tell Jason’s not falling into a spiral. Instead, he goes to Genra, practices his abilities with her until he grows used to her mind and the tandem of her thoughts.

Duncan is obscure, downright confusing, and even though he tries to make a clear image of what he sees, Moon soon enough decides to leave the man altogether—what he understood is enough to be reassuring, he’s in this as much as everyone else.

When Moon goes to Tom, one attempt is enough to make him giggle, cheeks red along with the tips of his ears, and he sits by the sidelines of the training room as he watches the pair of friends go through the motions.

“You should tell Jason!” he grins when his interruption makes Tom fumble and lets Aki land a blow.

“Awful idea,” huffing, Tom sends his friend a glare before turning to look at him, “and stop snooping through our thoughts!”

“But Jason said I should practice!”

“When though?” wiping beads of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, Aki looks at the two of them with bright interest, “he hasn’t left his room in two days.”

“You ask _when_ and not _what_?” Tom whispers harshly and the other two ignore him.

“He still talks to me! I’m taking full advantage of his soft spot for kids. And he _does_ leave his room, he’s just busy!”

“Busy?” Aki steps closer to him, grabs a towel to wipe his face and drapes it over his head. Sitting down on the floor next to Moon, he rests his back fully against the wall and hums. “What’s he doing, then?”

“Something with his helmet and his suit’s defenses. I think he said something about a cable going haywire.”

“Did he say anything else?” approaching quickly, Tom stares at Moon with focused eyes and a frown. Both Moon and Aki look at him and _laugh._ “What?!”

“Oh man,” Aki uses the ends of his towel to cover his eyes with it, wheezing a little, “you got it bad, huh?”

“Really, Tom,” Moon smiles so brightly Tom vaguely wonders if the kid’s cheeks hurt, “tell him! He won’t be mean about it.”

“Wow, thanks,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest to play off how that stung, a little, and Moon’s smile gets bigger and _how is that even possible —_

So he practices it: saying the words, each and every iteration he can think of them, ends up feeling like he’s wound too tight and there’s no way of setting himself loose without it being a disaster. In his own room, patching minor tears in his uniform, his fingertips brush over the R that always rests atop his heart.

He thinks of his uncle in that ship sending him away into the path of survival, thinks of him and his last words, thinks that he misses him and his guidance. As Robin, he feels like he’s straining under the pressure of an universe waiting with bated breath to see who is going to fall next: those who got the race all figured out or the underdogs?

Which is what ends up leading him, uniform in his hands, to Jason’s door—what makes him force it open and stand on the threshold, like an offering of who knows what kind, and doesn’t waver when Jason looks at him with the full force of his attention.

“I need a Batman,” are the words his lips form, eyes drinking in the split of a second that it takes for Jason to completely understand where this conversation is going. This is no deterrent. “Back on earth, when you showed me the uniforms of your— _this_ family, you told me Batman always had a Robin. Which means Robin was never alone.”

“And you aren’t,” Jason begins and is promptly silenced by Thomas fully stepping into the room.

“A Robin cannot be alone,” he says, standing his ground, this is a battle he is not willing to lose, “you know this. I think you know this better than anyone ever will.”

Jason closes his eyes. His face goes a little pale. “No,” he whispers, like he’s pleading and it physically hurts him.

“Be my Batman,” still Thomas continues, twisting the knife in the gut just a little bit more. “I’ll be your Robin. Be my Batman.”

“No,” Jason says, voice just above a broken whimper, opens his eyes and this is the first time all his hurt, all his pain and his yearning, is bare for Thomas to experience and feel. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

_This is the very last memory of Bruce I have,_ is what his eyes scream and Thomas is too focused on his mission to read, _I cannot take that. Don’t take it away from me. I won’t let you._

“Jason, no one is better than you for this. Batman is needed out there, I know you know because we’ve both seen this, we are both fighting this war right here, right now. Batman gives people hope.” The final blow, the one they both sense in their very bones. “I need Batman, Jason. I need _you._ ”

A better man would cave in, fall to his knees at the might of Thomas' convictions. A better man wouldn’t doubt before saying yes. He’s not that man, and this time he doesn’t want to be.

His hands are dirty and he’s not willing to taint the very last thing he has, a sacred memory he clings onto even when he denies it, one he cannot live without. There are ways they can work around this. There are… there are other things to do. Just not this. Never this.

“Don’t,” he rises from his position, pieces of body armor strewn all around him like parts of a puzzle, “don’t you ever say that to me again. Don’t ask me this. I won’t. Robin can and _will_ live without Batman.”

They look at each other, eye to eye, and Thomas steps closer until the only thing between them is the gear on the floor. Like this, Jason has the strangest urge to reach out, can see it reflected in the other’s irises. This is a bad road to go down on.

“It’s ‘cause you don’t think you’ll do him justice, isn’t it?” Tom asks, voice low, lets his hands drop though he never lets go of his uniform. Jason just swallows, bites the reply that wants to come out and lets the fight run out of his system. “What was he like? Your Bruce, what was his Batman like?”

Little aches that spread like sparks through every old scar from the nostalgic old times. A red bat symbol on the chest piece of black armor, an easily traced outline. Phantom touches and ghostly reassurances, hints of memories and nightmares all in one.

Quiet like the space unfolding outside the ship, Jason lets his eyes wash over Thomas as he replies: “Larger than life. And death, too, sometimes.”

They all fall like soldiers. Whether retired, in battle or out of it, at the end of the day, when dusk comes, they all fall and pass on the weight they carry onto his shoulders. Tell him with more or less hope that there is still a future to look up to, there still is chance and there still is opportunity.

He never tells them that for every promise of greatness there are ten of doom. He never says that it’s futile. He never promises to try. They know this of him yet they trust his grip anyway, trust the strength of his muscles that are keeping him up and running.

He was there when the lanterns one by one burnt out.

He was there when the supers failed and the day of dread won.

He was there for each of them even when all he had wanted to do was run to the core of the planet and never return. Even when every bat related individual was long gone, he was still there, holding on, feet on the ground, watching the rest crumble down and fall with the grace of a kingdom meeting its end.

Up in flames, won over by time, debris and smoke leaving nothing but ghosts and memories behind…

He was there for those who gave up. Those, he understood, but those also harmed the most.

The thing is: he was there when he wished for anything but that. Death through death again, he survived. He overcame thirst and hunger and pain. He was there for the thousands of years to come with no one to be there for, with no one to share a second with.

For as long as he could, he was the most insistent graveyard visitor existence ever knew. Flowers for the heroes. Flowers for the friends he once had. Flowers for some of those who made their lives harder but at the end of the day crumbled away like fine dust. They, too, were part of an era.

He begins paying more attention to Thomas, tells himself it’s to make sure he doesn’t go around making wild propositions ever again. Jason watches in silence and takes notice of everything that’s there to be noticed, feels a bitter little thing gnaw at his insides and grow bigger the more it is fed.

Because Thomas is too receptive, too open, too willing to bare his throat to him, to Jason, and Jason doesn’t know—doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know if he deserves it. 

He simply knows, with undeniable certainty, that he can never be the Batman to this last surviving Robin. Sure, he can be something else. That is what he’s doing. But still there is this unthought known telling him in a tiny tinny voice that he’s failing him, he’s failing everyone, like he always knew he would.

That all his reasons could easily be him looking for excuses he’s steadily running out of ever since Thomas dropped that request on him. Perhaps since before that, who knows?

Be my Batman, he had said, no Robin was ever alone. So many words had died in Jason’s throat, every single _trust me, Robin was often alone_ that led to a warehouse no longer in existence. 

(Because that had been out of Bruce’s hands, hadn’t it? That had been all on him. A stray bird running too far from the nest.) 

Yet there is nothing against the universal truth that is: he’s no Bruce and he’s no Batman. He will never be, not in this universe—and even if he could transform himself like that, shift his soul far enough for the metamorphosis to happen, it would mean betraying his Bruce when the man is no longer around to enjoy it. So really, he has no reason to do that anymore.

The longer they train and fight together, not only the two of them but the others as well, the more Jason begins to think of all of them as _team._ Those are dangerous thoughts to have when one is his age and has lived through all the bullshit he's survived.

It stings and makes him grumpy, he doesn’t have a single problem admitting that, because thinking of these idiots as a team means he’s already too damn attached to them and he just signed himself up for a future of freshly baked pain. Ready to go, beautifully packaged, deluxe edition: the last of the last in the confines of space.

And he would back off if he could lie to himself about it, but he can't and what's the point of denying that he _cares_ about them as much as they all care about each other and, well, him. Like this they are all flourishing, making Jason remember days of his youth spent in a cape, shorts, boots, smiling because he hadn't known any better, not yet, not then. He had been a kid who believed in magic and believed it ran through every golden chance he took.

In simpler words, he's feeling hopeful. With that comes sadness, too. 

Though it's hard to cling to it when the kid, Moon, runs to him and excitedly shows off how far he's gotten with his abilities. Or when he asks Jason to keep him company while they meditate, something Jason taught him because he remembered in a burst of times past a violet girl who did that a whole lot to keep things in check and seemed to have that going for her.

There is also Genra and her good aim, her high kicks and a wit that makes him think of his favorite heroines. All of them, in potential.

Things that make him go to his room, lay in his cot, and not feel either cold or chill. Things that soothe the fangs of the nightmares. Things he knows will poison him slowly once these are snatched from his hands, too.

Jason isn't blind and he is no fool.

He waits, bides his time, lets the kid gather his strength to own up to it. After all, this is a road all robins have taken a detour through, one way or another.

He doesn't make it any easier because the mere idea makes a shiver run through him, leaves him confused and altered. He's unsure, on top of everything, and too much of a stranger to touch and want, yet knows like an old friend the weight of longing.

So saying that he hadn't seen this coming would be the worst lie he's ever tried to say. The signs had all been here and everyone had picked up on them. The long glances, the moments shared together, the almost-touches. The shared air.

Perhaps he's let this run unchecked too long. Does it make him a bad guy? Is it wrong that maybe he's been wanting this too, a little, that when he looks at the other he thinks of the one that is long gone—thinks of _him,_ in all his glory, and feels the rush of his heart beating to an old song. Their eyes are the same, as well as the set of their eyebrows. The line of their mouth.

Things he misses. Things he wishes he could savour again.

Things that make him hate himself, a whole lot, when he’s in his cot and wonders where do the similarities end? Will it be in the way they hold him, they kiss him, and soon his eyes flutter closed, eyelashes wet, as his mouth barely falls open in the most silent of gasps he can emit.

There is a fever running through his blood that makes him weak for these quick moments of heat and loneliness, of remembrance. He holds himself in his grip like he did back then, thinks of _him_ but also of this other him, of them as two and as one, until the lack of air hurts his lungs and it feels like everything is contracting, like he’s exploding into one million and two shards.

When everything's quiet and no one is roaming the ship, when Thomas pushes him against a wall with a blush high on his cheeks, Jason recognizes coals of ancient fires lightning up again inside him. He lets it be, keeps himself open to it, to the kiss pressed against his lips that comes with all the desperation that burns their limits. To the confirmation of difference while still holding a degree of closeness, a rapid-fall aided by the force of gravity that is attraction.

Thomas is kissing him like Jason's a newfound religion, like he's the answer to questions never asked. The intensity of it is something he recognizes in himself.

Something he's been guilty of in the past because of someone he tried to keep alive inside himself. Hoping with each devouring kiss their time together would expand. Hoping with each devoted touch the universe will stop pushing them to their breaking point.

It's the way the union of their mouths sends him into spiraling thoughts what makes him take the reins. Pushing his hips against Thomas' narrow ones, he uses his weight and height to his advantage to turn them around, flip them so that he’s the one crowding into Thomas’ space, pulling him up against the wall. And Thomas' drowned gasp—if Jason were the one he used to be all those years ago he would've been on his knees at the sweetness of that sound.

He would be worshipping it like he should, devoting himself to it and to bringing forth more of those sounds. As it is, he presses his thigh between the other's legs, bites down on a soft lip and he drinks up the breathless whine. Gets drunk and warm on it until the taste of past kisses, an aftermath of his love, is not as overpowering, not as present—not now.

Thomas still meets him with every movement, feeds off his energy and actions to find his footing and take back some of the control. He brings Jason closer, keeps an arm around his shoulders and the other steadily slips down his back, hand going straight for the gold and resting right where the waistband of the pants lays.

Each point of contact is like heaven to him, made bigger with the way his hips ride higher up Jason’s thigh, a delicious pressure between his legs he’s never to forget.

All too soon their lips part, Thomas’ eyes fixing immediately in the redness quality overtaking Jason’s mouth, looking so tempting kissed like that, demanding more thorough attention. Demanding more of his mouth.

“Easy there, Tommy boy,” Jason breathes out, smiles at him and Thomas feels the strength he always has leave his knees in an unprecedented feat of _want_ wrecking him fully. It shouldn’t be possible to desire to be with someone so much. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” he says with the conviction of someone who is about to give their entire soul to something, knowing there will be no regrets in the future. “Please.”

“Let’s go to your room,” laughing softly, Jason leans in to close his mouth along the line of Tom’s jaw, down the side of his neck, over the expanse of a collarbone. It all makes Tom feel like he’s about to burst, like this is the wildest of dreams come true. “Come on, before they see us.”

Thomas doesn’t say that perhaps he wants to be _seen._

That perhaps if this happens before the eyes of someone else then there would be no denying, there would be no confusion. It would be as real as the yearning Thomas is too smart to see in the depths of Jason’s sight.

Bruce is a reassuring confirmation that he’s still human, if just barely, as the man lays him down on their large bed, naked and tender, receptive to every touch and kiss. When the reverence grows to be too much, Jason just closes his eyes, whines a little, smiles when Bruce’s soft laughter is pressed against the scar on his shoulder, sunken in and round.

Like this, Jason doesn’t think that he’s three dusks too many away from the normal amount of just one. Doesn’t think that the long night of cold sheets and open windows will come, doesn’t think that he’s just making things worse for everyone, himself included.

Bruce holds him in his arms, shapes him anew in this instant, kisses his mouth and pours into him every word kept quiet, every apology, every declaration of something else. Jason still thinks it’s kind of shitty that he does this, never speaks, never fully acknowledges the million wrongs.

Yet Jason still falls for it, still drinks Bruce’s kisses up and lets himself believe in him, in them, until the next crash. This is his punishment for the years to come. This is his gift.

“Come on, old man,” Jason breathes against Bruce’s mouth, grinds his hips up against the other’s, lets his legs fall open even further, welcoming and inviting, waiting and wanting.

“Let me hold you like this a little more,” Bruce says, almost a growl, pulls him closer, each part of their bodies perfectly aligned in the prolonged contact. “A little longer.”

He thinks, yeah, ok, he’s getting into his years. The kiss is no less delicious, no less sweet. Jason closes his eyes, smiles into it, he’s so stupidly happy he can barely contain the emotion within himself, it keeps breaking out like rays of light out of every pore in his body. It’s such an idiocy, to feel like he’s shining, to feel like this is the best he can ask out of the thread of life, even if it’s not meant to last.

So he pours his soul into it, for Bruce he can keep finding pieces of it, he will keep giving even when there is no more. Closes a hand on the short hairs of the back of his head, tugs on them a little, relishes in the groan that earns him, devours it, bites and licks and takes as much as he dares to.

Their bodies flip, the world around them shakes, and he’s got a leg trapped between meaty ones, hips that roll in tandem with his, heat and desperation and.

“Jason,” he chokes on a moan.

Jason opens his eyes to blond hair spilling like a halo on a pillow, a young face overridden by pleasure, mouth red and swollen. Something stutters in his chest but he doesn’t stop, it wouldn’t be fair, to ruin things like this, and he wants this even if he feels a bit like dying.

It hurts, it hurts so much all the beauty confined within Thomas, his clear eyes, his sharp features, the sureness of his movements. Maybe it’s fitting that he’s soiling this Wayne with his dirt just like he soiled the first one that took him in. Maybe it’s not, and it truly is simply and undeniably fucked up.

“Come on, kid,” he grunts past the constriction in his throat, makes himself smile, pulls away far enough to get both of their pants down, to get them out of their clothes, stopping to go slower on himself just as Thomas opens his glorious eyes to look at him, putting on a show, dragging his tongue across his lower lip.

Youth and inexperience light up Thomas’ face, blush darkening, clear blue eyes dilating even more. Jason could eat him up. It would be so easy. So rewarding.

“Well,” he moves again, lays on top and smiles encouragingly when thick thighs wrap around his hips without a second of doubt, “how do you want me, Tommy boy? Tell me. I’m all yours.”

“Like this,” Thomas whispers, lifts his hands to softly trace the line of Jason’s shoulders, fingertips moving down, touching scars but never stopping. “I want. I want anything you want to give me. Jason.”

“Anything you want,” Jason promises through the sting of pain radiating from the sunken mark on his shoulder, “everything you need.”

Later, when they are all sticky and sweaty, a well spent haze spreading over their limbs and muscles, Jason pulls Thomas closer, arm around the other’s waist, tucks him in against his chest.

He lets himself wander through his thoughts, taking each path of his mind until he starts laughing, a growing but not overpowering sound, soft, private. He hides his face in the union of Thomas’ shoulder and neck.

"What would he think," the fact that he’s putting this into words just signals that tiredness is winning over, that the extended touch has made him softer, has made his walls less tall, "I think he'd find it funny, after everything I am the definite cause the Wayne bloodline meets its end. I mean, it's pretty ironic. When I tried, I didn't succeed. Now I'm not even trying."

In his embrace, Thomas stiffens for an instant, something that cannot go unnoticed, yet he only huffs before turning around, watching and studying Jason's face. Something he's been doing a lot lately. Like he's trying to commit it to memory. Which doesn't make sense, because Jason will be the one left with nothing but memories, not the other way around.

"What makes you so sure there won't be any more Waynes?"

"Kid, this might be news to you, but neither of us can birth children," as he speaks he moves closer so he can kiss the space between Thomas' collarbones, there is comfort in the warm skin underneath his lips. "And you don't seem too interested in starting a family, either."

"Even so," Tom sighs, melts a bit at the action, moves a hand to Jason's head so he can run his fingers through his hair, "maybe the bloodline might be lost, but you've been around us long enough to be a honorary Wayne. You carry all of them, don't you? In your head."

There is such truth to the words that it nudges them into silence. Jason keeps his head tucked underneath the other's chin, his breathing soft and tickling, eyelashes fluttering against skin. Thomas continues petting his hair, untangling the messy curls at the back, knowing he brought into light something Jason's spent his whole existence denying.

"My head is not a trustworthy space," he settles for, after the longest of handful of minutes, and Thomas smiles. It's a sad thing, one that he only shows when Jason can't see.

"Your heart, then," he says easily and lets that be the final words.

  
  


The end doesn't sneak up on any of them.

When it comes rushing forward and crashes upon them, they are ready for it. It's still not pretty, not easy and not fair: they are still few against thousands but they have many tricks and many dreams to fight for, which is what propels them further into the fray.

For all their organization and intelligence services, the skulps fall without grace and without might. It's Jason's first cue that there is something bigger cooking up in the oven. The one thing that will make them tumble.

He takes a shot meant for Aki and laughs because he feels _alive_ and that is such an odd sensation. He feels _human._ Like he could, if he lets it, belong here. It would be easy. It would be possible to have a home. But as soon as the idea pops up it's deflated and his laughter grows louder because _of course, of course time kicks his ass once more._

Quite literally.

The machine is huge, he's got to give it that. And the design is beautiful. The engineering that went behind it no doubt a piece of marveling genius, which doesn't change the fact that it's their enemy's most dangerous weapon. So it has to go. He can't risk anyone else being done wrong by it. He can't risk any more losses.

He himself is the one thing he is willing to bet against all odds. And he will.

The general's ship is blowing up in different sections, battles going on everywhere, it would be a matter of no effort getting lost in such madness. When he turns to look for him, he finds him in just an instant.

Thomas is there, alive, a wound bleeding sluggishly from his forehead, but he's alive and young and with a whole life ahead of him. One of heroics, surely.

Jason knows that. Thomas is much too good for him. Jason knows this too.

In that instant they look at each other in the middle of hell raining down on them. Thomas' face contorts into an expression of pain. He's running towards him. But he's not lucky, because for once the bastard that is time, it is on Jason's side.

He yells at Genra, tells her to grab Thomas and _go,_ find the kid, find the others, _go,_ and Genra _gets it,_ says goodbye with just a nod and for once does as he asks. Thomas might be screaming something but what else can he do when Jason keeps slipping away from sight and from his side, when dying skulps still try to take a win, as small as it might be, and the ship is blowing up, there is no time, _there is no time._

Time is all in that machine to control, a creation that destabilizes timelines, creates rips and holes and wounds throughout them with no chance for repairs. It's only fitting that he brings it down with himself, the man of yesterday in the year of tomorrow destroying the weapon of time.

Maybe this is what he's been made for. Maybe with this he can go back. Go back to _them._ He knows they are waiting. They have been for so long.

This, too, is about to explode. He's making sure of it. He's making it happen with his own hands. Through a cracked glass in the ship's viewport, Jason looks out, sees the stars light years away shining.

"I'm coming," he says, laughing, "I'm almost there."

Inferno rises. Before he knows it, he's being yanked backwards by a force he's in no position to resist. He hits his head on something. Sound goes out, there's buzzing in his ears, he loses all sense of direction.

He might be delusional, because he swears he can hear Thomas screaming for him. He needs to let him go. Let go. Let go.

Existence fades to black.

This is it.

Drip.

Drip.

Another droplet falls onto his dry lips, someone presses a wet towel against them, brings back moisture.

Jason opens his eyes and freezes. This roof he knows. These walls with their ancient decorations. He's been here colored in green before.

"You're finally awake, Todd."

He startles into shaken consciousness. Jumps up on the bed, sits up so fast his vision fades to grey for a moment. His heart is beating so fast he is sure the sound can be heard perfectly outside of his chest. This is—this—

"I'm sure you recognize this League's room. I didn't change it much throughout different renovations."

But. It can't.

It can't be.

He must be dreaming.

"Damian," he whispers, voice breaking, and no one can hold his shaking against him, "Damian, you are _dead._ "

"I'm most certainly not," he says and stands tall in all his might, grown and imposing yet still undeniably young, _impossibly alive._ "Had I died, I would've made sure to let you know."

"But. But you disappeared! Centuries ago! Everyone thought… I…"

There is dripping again. Crystalline and salty and burning. Damian doesn't frown at the sight. He steps closer, sits back on the edge of Jason's bed, wipes the other's cheeks with the same damp towel he used to wet his lips.

It only makes the torrent grow. Because the touch feels real. Because maybe Jason is not dreaming. This is not another cruel hallucination.

"All this time, Todd. All this time, I've been trying to find it: the key to your immortality, how to bring it to an end. But I knew I couldn't be unwise about it. There were higher chances I would never find such a thing. So I took it upon myself to harness the full potential of the Lazarus pit."

"You could've told me," he says, shattering into a thousand million little pieces of glass, all shining and sharp like daggers. "You could've let me know! I thought. I thought you… everyone… I thought I was _alone._ "

"I believed it was for the best. I didn't want to promise more than I could offer with certainty. I didn't know if I. If I would end up becoming just like grandfather," with a sigh, Damian pulls away, rests his hands on his lap. There is no apology good enough for this, he knows. "Do you hate me, Jason? For what I've done?"

For a moment, he wants to say _yes. Yes I hate you for leaving me in the dark. For letting me rot and crumble into despair when by simply reaching out I would've been able to keep going. To keep fighting. I would've made a bigger effort to make things right._

He considers this. Stares into Damian's eyes in silence, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Now is not the right instance for panicking.

Then he thinks it again. Despises the hollow rattling in his chest. He's given away everything.

"But," sniffing once, he lets a rogue grin find his way to his lips. Get up, keep going, there is more to come, "I think I missed you more. Crazy as it sounds."

Damian smiles.

Maybe they can make this work.

...

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to know more or simply wishes to ask what the hell is wrong with me, I am not picky, here's a link to [my tumblr](https://wajjs.tumblr.com).
> 
> I am going down with this ship of my own creation. I am proud.


End file.
